


The Red String

by Tora



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, xxxHoLic
Genre: ACD Canon, Alternate Reality, Gen, The Adventure of the Three Garridebs, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 15:28:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tora/pseuds/Tora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cross posted on ff.net, based on a prompt from the Sherlock Kink Meme. Knowledge of xxxHolic is helpful, but not necessary to understand the story.</p>
<p>The Adventure of the Three Garridebs ends quite differently and Sherlock Holmes has a wish to make.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Red String

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on ff.net, but I've revised it (again) and hopefully it's improved a bit. 
> 
> Here's the original prompt: "I'd like a fill in which Sherlock Holmes lived in Victorian London with Watson and all until something terrible happened (Watson died?) and he ended up somehow at Yuuko's shop from xxholic (or any other way to introduce the retcon). He wishes to have one more chance and so he's reborn into present-day London, waiting to find his Watson. Only part of the deal was that John wouldn't remember him and Sherlock couldn't force the meeting/search for John on his own.
> 
> So, he waits.
> 
> bonus - When he was reborned, he didn't come back quite the same... as in, in Victorian times he was like RDJ!Holmes and now he's BBC!Sherlock. Part of his reason for taking drugs was that he was feraked out about this/worried if John would still take him
> 
> Alternate version! - maybe Sherlock himself doesn't remember the deal. HE just has stranges dreams and that empty feeling..."

John Watson was dead and I was the one who killed him. For the sake of the story the man himself would bid me to be more honest than that, I suppose. I do not mean that I was the one to pull the trigger, but that by my inaction, and by his association with me, my companion, friend, and partner was dead. I was a killer, and Scotland Yard, the same men with who I have worked to uphold Justice, were required to pursue me as a murderer.

  
I might ask my audience, if I do indeed have one, to forgive me. I have often bade my clients to "begin at the beginning" and I suppose I should follow my own advice. I find that I desire nothing less than to do such a thing. The beginning is nothing special and the end is tragic. I shall endeavor to explain the whole business that began with the name Garrideb. Though now I wish desperately that the syllables had never reached my ears!

  
I will not bore you with the details of the case. Mostly because I find my pen hesitating. If I truly take the time to record the entire affair, I will never reach the climax. It is too painful to do slowly. Like setting a broken limb without an anesthetic, it is best done quickly. I do not delude myself into thinking that the pain will ever fade, but perhaps in simply telling the worst of it, it will cease to burn like a hot poker through my heart and become a more bearable sensation.

  
Watson and I had lay in wait for Killer Evans, alias Mr. John Garrideb, in the apartment of Mr. Nathan Garrideb. We witnessed the scoundrel descend through the trapdoor that lead to the secret compartment where he and his former associate had hidden their loot. At my signal we moved closer to better corner the fiend when he emerged. Both of us were armed with revolvers and I was confident that between us we could end the whole affair with no bloodshed.

  
Presently, Killer Evans emerged and I reveled in his shocked demeanor. If only I had been less confident! He schooled his expression quickly as he climbed out of the trapdoor.

  
"Well, well! I guess you have been one too many for me, Mr. Holmes."

  
I was wary, and I could feel Watson shifting at my side to better keep Killer Evans in the sight of his revolver. Evans continued to speak, his tone cordial and eerily calm for a murderer who'd been caught.

  
"Saw through my game, I suppose, and played me for a sucker from the first." All true, but that did not mean he was not dangerous. "Well, sir, I hand it to you: you have me beat and-"

  
He whisked a revolver from his coat before I could react. Quick and deadly as a viper he fired two shots. I was moving even as the gun was being aimed, and brought the butt of my pistol down on his head. From the corner of my eye I saw Watson stagger, his face ghostly white and his blue eyes impossibly wide. His gun fell to the floor with a clatter and his hands went to the bloody patch that was growing on his thigh. Then he was falling too, stumbling down to the ground like a puppet with cut strings.

  
My heart was pounding wildly, there was nothing but Watson's white face and the blood. So much blood spilling from his thigh. A part of me, a very small, distant part in the back of my brain managed to be coherent in my panic. The femoral artery had been hit. An adult man would bleed out in 3 to 5 minutes without proper help. I tore my jacket from my shoulders and dropped to Watson's side, pressing the bundle of cloth hard to the bleeding wound. It was no use shouting for aid. The housekeeper who gave us entry had left and we were alone but for the unconscious Evans.

  
"Watson, you will not die here," I told him. I think that was more for myself than for him, looking back. A world without John Watson was inconceivable to me, of course he could not die. I would not let him. Any God worth believing in would not allow it.  
"Apologies, Holmes.” He spoke so softly that I had to read his lips to understand what he'd said. A difficult task with his neatly trimmed mustache concealing his upper lip and my fear clouding my thoughts.

  
"No apologies, my friend, only live. I swear this is the last and greatest favor I will ever ask of you," I said, choking on the words. Watson was smiling. It was a small, surprised smile, but it was one of the happiest expressions I had ever seen on his face. If he had not had the pallor of a ghost I would have called it the most beautiful expression I'd ever seen grace his features. I could not bear it. How could he be happy when his blood was draining away and my world was ending?

  
Blood had soaked through my coat, staining my hands, my trousers, and pooling on the floor. I pressed down as hard as I could, but it would not stop and I felt like I was drowning in it. Drowning in that impossible, inconceivable moment that could not possibly be happening.

  
I do not know how long I knelt there, putting pressure on a wound that was no longer bleeding because there was no longer a pulse. Watson was still, his body growing cold. His face had gone slack when he'd lost consciousness, but if I looked closely I could still see traces of that smile around his lips. If he were not so pale, if his chest had not been so still, I could have fooled myself into thinking that he was dreaming of pleasant things.

  
I did not notice Evans stirring until he moved to push himself to his feet. I was hollow. That is the only word I can think of to describe it. There was gaping, black pit in my chest and I could only think that this man was responsible for putting it there.  
"He died, then?" Evans asked, grinning. There was a trail of blood down the side of his face from where I'd struck him. "A shame, that. Maybe now you'll learn, Mr. Holmes, just who you're deal--."

  
His voice was like a pickaxe driven into my ears. I could not stand it. How dare he live? How dare a villain like him still draw breath when my best and most loyal friend, my only friend, lay dead before me? From the black pit roared a fiery rage I'd never experienced before, or since.

  
Watson had written before of my cool demeanor, my detachment from my emotions. I found it impossible to be detached now. Vengeance, rage, grief, denial, all of them burned hot and vicious, chasing away the numbness that had settled in my limbs.

  
My pistol had been in my hand when I dropped to Watson's side, and I retrieved it without thinking. Blood made my hand slick and my thumb slipped once on the hammer as Evans was speaking. I said nothing, only watched his face, watched the surprise dawn on his features when he realized what was happening.

  
I fired once, twice. He fell clutching his chest, blood blossoming on his shirt. I staggered to my feet, my trousers soaked and my knees stiff. I stood over the gasping murderer and fired the last four bullets into his head. I felt only a mild sense of annoyance that such a villain should bleed the same red as my Watson.

  
I do not clearly recall what occurred after that. I must have returned, in some measure, to my senses, and fled the scene. Lestrade and Gregson were not so skilled as I in the realm of deduction and detective work, but they were good men. Loyal men dedicated to justice and the Queen's law. Our past association would not be enough for them to overlook my actions. The physical evidence spoke for itself, loud enough for any amateur to hear. Two bullets to the chest may have been self-defense. Four to the head was an execution.

  
So I fled. I do not know how I returned to Baker Street without alarming anyone, as bloodied as I was. Or perhaps I did and I simply do not remember. I returned to our rooms without alerting Mrs. Hudson and washed the blood from my skin. I disguised myself as a bearded sailor and made my way to the docks. I boarded the first ship that would have me, a merchant vessel called the _Justine_ , bound for the Orient.

  
I do not know why I did such a thing. As we sailed away from London I found myself returning to my senses. I watched the waves slap against the hull and wondered why I had bothered. If I had stayed at the scene I would have been arrested, and I would have welcomed it. I felt no guilt at killing Evans, but Watson would not be dead if I had not lead him into danger. As surely as if I had pulled the trigger myself, I had killed Watson. And a London without John Watson was no longer conceivable to me, so deeply accustomed had I become to his presence. I can only think that I was operating on some base, animal instinct to survive. While my brain had been disengaged, my body had made the decision to keep me alive and free.

  
Those first few weeks aboard the _Justine_ were a blessing. I had never worked on a merchant vessel before and it took all of my considerable powers of observation and mimicry to pass myself off as a seasoned sailor. I went through my shipboard duties like a ghost. I spoke little and my crew mates let me be. I cannot say I enjoyed the labor, but it kept me from my thoughts and the emptiness that echoed in my chest. When the day was through, I would sit on the deck with the others and listen to their chatter. Some of the more grizzled sailors told stories of the exotic countries we were bound to. One tale, told by a man named Farley, caught my attention.

  
"I ‘eard it from a Dutchman, meself," said he. " 'bout a witch wot lives in a mansion no one can see ‘cept them that needs to see it. She's got uncanny red eyes that can read yer soul and know yer darkest wishes. An’ she'll grant 'em, too. For a price."

  
"Oh come off it!" A younger man, Hinde his name was, scoffed. "A witch is it? I think yer ‘avin' us on!"

  
"The Orient ain't like anywhere ye’ve ever been before, lad," another man chimed in. "Queer things happen there."

  
The discussion shifted to who had seen the strangest sights and where, but I had ceased to listen. A witch who could grant wishes? Certainly it sounded like a child's bedtime story, but if she were real. . . I dismissed the thought. I have always been a man of reason, of science and fact, such fancies were below me. Or rather, had been. Reason had vanished when Watson drew his last breath. I had not made a single rational decision since that fateful evening, but this was something far worse than fleeing the country I loved. This was hope, something far more painful and tenuous.

  
We docked in Tokyo six months after leaving London. I took my shore leave with the rest of the crew. While they descended upon the dockside brothels and opium dens, I made for the streets. If I had been myself I would have been fascinated by the wonders around me. The mysterious and elegant kanji that made up their writing system, the flow of foreign words. The strange smells and sights would have delighted me and I could almost imagine Watson's expression of wonder if he had been at my side. As it was, I was a specter chasing a dream.

  
I scoured the crowded streets, ignorant of the stares I received. I was tall among my own countrymen and in this place my height was even more extreme. I towered head and shoulders over most of the people I passed. I did not allow myself to contemplate the futility of my search. A house only the ones who needed it could see? A more vague and unhelpful description did not exist. I was certainly in need, but that meant nothing.

  
I do not know how long I walked, but the sun had begun to set when my feet led me to a strange house surrounded by a wooden fence. The gateposts were capped with delicately carved crescent moons. The house itself was elegant in the combined designs of the Japanese and the European. It possessed the clean, straight lines of the Asian style combined with Queen Anne elements like the octagon tower at the corner, also capped with a crescent moon.

  
I studied this curious house for a moment, unsure what had caught my attention. It was certainly a beautiful piece of architecture and must have belonged to someone of wealth, but there was nothing outwardly remarkable about it. Then I noticed that I was the only one studying it. Not a single person passing by on the street so much as glanced at the building. My heart was in my throat and I thought my knees had turned to water. Could this truly be the place?

  
I was walking forward without realizing it. My feet taking me up the path to the double doors without my command. The doors swung open and two of the queerest little girls I have ever seen greeted me with bright smiles.

  
"Welcome to our humble home!" they chorused. I was bewildered. Both were small and slender, with the same round, pale face that I could almost call them twins if not for their hair and eyes. The girl on my left had long, pale blue hair done up in two waving pigtails, her eyes the same shade as her hair. The girl to my right had short, pink hair to her chin and her eyes were also the same color as her hair.

  
They took my hands and pulled me inside before I could speak. They lead me through the halls to a paper screen door and I recognized the scent of opium immediately. The two girls slid the door open and lead me inside.

  
"Mistress, we have a guest!" they chorused again.

  
The woman seated at the low table was the most elegant and exotic creature I had ever seen. Jet black hair flowed down to the floor in inky waves, and blood red eyes regarded me from a face as white as the moon. She was dressed in a black kimono embroidered with purple butterflies. A pipe was poised between long fingers, one elbow braced on the table as she studied me. I could not help the shiver that went up my spine. The weight of her attention was daunting, as though she was gazing into my very heart. I wondered if she could see the black, withered, empty thing it had become. I wondered if this was how other people felt when I studied them.

  
"Sit, Mr. Holmes," she said, gesturing to the cushion opposite her. Her English was unaccented, her voice was low and sultry.

  
I wondered how she knew my name when no one had called me by it since I left London. I sat. The two strange children vanished and reappeared again with a teapot and two of the handleless cups favored by the Asians. The woman poured us each a cup of tea, but I did not touch it.

  
"There are no coincidences in this world. Your coming here was _hitsuzen_ ," said she. "Inevitable. You have a wish, but I cannot grant it. Doctor Watson is no longer of this world. Those who are dead should remain that way." Even in my shock, I could see that there was something immeasurably sad in her face as she said this.

  
"I know that," I replied, softly. My mind was reeling. I had not thought of it in such a manner, what I was wishing for. I only wanted to see Watson again. To sit across from him in our flat sharing a brandy and discussing the news, or a case, or his patients. I wanted my friend back, and I did not care if that meant going against the very laws of God and Nature. The pit in my chest echoed with pain, grief, his name ringing like a plea in my ears. I did not care how this woman knew my name or of Watson. The fragile hope that had begun to blossom when I had first heard of this place began to whither. "You cannot help me, then."

  
She continued to speak as if I had said nothing. "I cannot reunite you in this life, but for a price I may ensure that you have the chance to meet again in another."

  
I gripped the edge of the table as though it were a lifeline, eyes riveted on her impassive face. "You could do that? I could see him again?"

  
"For a price."

  
"Anything. Name it, and it is yours." It was as though a climbing rose vine had grown out of the pit, thorns like daggers piercing me. At the same time the blossoms were so beautiful as to be worth the pain. Was it possible? Perhaps I was in an opium den on the docks with my crew mates and this was just a drug-induced fantasy. Perhaps she was insane, or maybe I was the one who was insane.

  
She regarded me closely, taking a sip of her tea. It seemed an eternity before she spoke.

  
"Your memories. When next you meet Dr. Watson you will have no memory of him, nor he of you."

  
"But--!" What was the point, then? To see my friend and not know him, and not be known by him. . . but to see him, even one more time. . . "Then why bother at all?" I demanded, although I had already made my decision.

  
She smiled like the Cheshire Cat, wide, mysterious, and knowing. She reached down to tap the pinky finger of my left hand. "There is a red string that connects us to the people we are destined to know, Mr. Holmes. There are many worlds beyond our own. You and Doctor Watson are bound together in all of them."

  
"Then why should I pay your price when I will meet him again anyway?"

  
"Because you might not meet again, not for many lifetimes. The red string of fate binds us to the people we are destined for, but it does not guarantee that we will meet them." Her face was solemn once more.

  
I did not fully understand what she meant. I only knew that she was promising me a chance to know Watson again.

  
"Do it."

  
She smiled again, setting her pipe aside. "Very well." She reached across the table and brushed an icy finger across my forehead.

  
~~~~~

  
Ever since I was a child I have been looking for something. For someone. I loathed the company of other children my age, not just because they were tedious and boring, but because none of them quite. . . fit. I would look behind me and expect to see someone who was never there. There was an empty space inside of me that howled and echoed with a loneliness that no one could relieve. Keeping my mind occupied with puzzles and experiments helped. If my brain was buzzing with facts and deductions then the awful din was drowned out.

  
On nights when there were no cases to solve, no experiments to run, I drowned it out with the blissful haze of cocaine. Coming off the high the emptiness was worse than ever. I needed more to drown it out and, inevitably, my body could not endure it. It was not intentional, the overdose, but as I fell into dark silence I was relieved.

  
When I woke up in the hospital, I was enraged. I had been so close to silencing the agony, the loneliness, forever, but because my brother is a meddlesome nuisance I was still alive and the cacophony was louder than ever. I have never forgiven him for it.

  
Years went by and I threw myself into my work. I had to keep busy, keep thinking, keep observing, anything to distract me from whatever was missing inside of me.

  
Then John Watson walked into the lab at St. Bart's.

  
I thought I had seen everything there was to see the instant he walked through the door: Army doctor, shoulder wound, psychosomatic limp, Post-Traumatic Stress, home no more than a two months, studied with Stamford, looking for a flat share. Unimportant. I filed the information away to be deleted later and turned back to my experiment.

  
"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." Better tell Lestrade about the bruising patterns before Anderson jumped the gun again and sent off after the wrong man.

  
"And what's wrong with the landline?"

  
"I prefer to text."

  
"Sorry, it's in my coat."

  
"Ah, here. Use mine."

  
I had almost forgotten he was in the room. Now that my attention was back on the strange army doctor I finally noticed.

  
It was quiet.

  
The howling, raging din of loneliness, misery, and sense of something-missing was gone.


End file.
